Waiting Never Sleeps
by HauntedSilver
Summary: Compromised and broken. But they'll always have each other. A Clintasha story about their leave of absence and recovery from Loki's attack.
1. Bows and Arrows

**A/N: I was listening to this song that I think is the most perfect Clintasha song ever (there's a hint in the tile and chapter name, BTW ;) ) which I'll be using to attempt to make a Clintasha vid out of when the DVD's released in September.**

Yeah, weird way to start off a series. Whatever. The others will be longer, and will probably make more sense. 

-~•~-

Names.

For some reason that's what she thinks about as he revs up the car. Clint and Natasha. Hawkeye and Black Widow.

Hawkeye and Black Widow go together, but not in a romantic way. Like leaves and trees. More specifically, a bow and arrow. Partners. Nothing more.

Clint and Natasha seems different. Not because of identity or anything like that. But while Hawkeye and Black Widow is sword and hilt, gun and bullets, Clint and Natasha is something else entirely. Nat can't place it exactly. Both names go together so well, so irrevocably perfect and bound that no one can deny it. But Clint and Natasha is so different. You can't compare it to anything. Poison and wine? No. Peanut butter and jelly? Definitely not. (She never got that one, anyway.)

Clint and Natasha...is just Clint and Natasha. That's it. That's everything. It can't be contrasted with anything else.

Natasha stares out the windows at the trees as they pass. She doesn't know where they're going, but it doesn't really matter. She's with her partner: the one person she actually trusts and the one person whose back she'd watch no matter what. Love has nothing to do with it. Trust and debt are more powerful than anything.

Clint chuckles softly as she explains about the names. Sometimes she wonders why she ever says things like this, but he always understands what she's trying to say. They don't need words.

He smiles at her. "I like the bow and arrow analogy."

"Really?" Natasha says flatly. She shoots a look at the black box in the back seat that's hiding his favourite weapon.

"Well, it's us. Clint and Natasha. The bow and the arrow."

She grins back. She doesn't know how to smile with anyone else. Natasha isn't sure he does, either. But he's still better at it then she is. Apparently she's lifeless when she's in her own skin. Natasha supposes that's because she's become so practiced in having a blank expression. It's better for spies. It keeps them both safe.

Her and her partner. The only problem with the bow and arrow analogy is that bows and arrows don't protect each other. They can't.

But she and Clint can. And she'd hit him really hard on the head a thousand times if it meant they were both safe.


	2. Weapons and Pillows

**A/N: So, yeah. Not dead. Longer chapter. Whoo-hoo.**

**I spent an hour looking up cities near Manhattan to make this more realistic, because I'm (pretty obviously) not American. But then I got really frustrated and gave up. So you guys are stuck with vague.**

-—-•-—-

The wind's whipping her hair around, and Nat can imagine it staining the air with red.

_"Can you really wipe out that much red?" _

Natasha clenches her eyes shut, fingers digging into the car for purchase. She waits until the image passes. When it does, she glances at Clint. She can't tell exactly where he's looking with the sunglasses on, but his posture is casual. It must be a thousand times worse for him. She had to avoid being killed by her partner, the one person she trusted, and try to fix him without him ending up dead. But he had to be trapped in his body for the whole thing, kill dozens of people, help the enemy, have his mind corrupted and compromised.

Technically, she got off lucky.

Tasha turns back to the sunset outside her window. She doesn't want to think about that. Natasha doesn't really want to talk, either. She and Clint are comfortable with silence. They don't need words.

"We should probably stop for the night." The words spill from her mouth anyway.

Clint nods without his sunglassed gaze moving from the road. Natasha's eyes stray back to the sunset painting red, blue, orange and yellow across the sky. He still hasn't brought up where they're going. "There's a motel a mile from here." He doesn't say which one, or which city they'll circle through to avoid any possible pursuers. The car could be bugged, but the possibilities of that are pretty low. Being an assassin is a dangerous job, and they've both developed habits that keep them safe: whether it's necessary or not.

"You've been here before?"

Clint smirks and points to a billboard in the distance. It takes a while before she can read it, but there's definitely a motel a mile away.

Natasha stretches, arching her back and twining her hands together above her head. "I can't wait to get out of this car."

Clint glances at her, raising an eyebrow in amusement. "Carsick, princess?"

"You're the one who's good at sitting still for extended periods of time." Natasha points out as he turns left, away from the sign and their new destination.

Clint nods, turning back to the road. It takes another hour before they're back in the area again and in the motel parking lot.

"We'd like a suite with two bedrooms, please." Natasha says, beating Clint to the desk.

The lady at the desk smiles apologetically. She's probably the type to get pushed around. "I'm sorry, but we only have one bedroom suites left."

"That's fine." Clint says over her shoulder. Natasha snatches the sunglasses from his face. No one wears sunglasses at nine o' clock at night.

The woman suddenly looks relieved —who told her she was in the presence of two assassins?— and takes out a key. "Room forty-seven E. Forty dollars a night. There's breakfast downstairs and room service for other meals. A week is two hundred fifty dollars." She shoots a look at Clint quickly, one that Natasha might miss if she was someone else. It's a look that's begging him to stay the week. A look that adds 'Can I stay in your room?'

"We'll only be staying the one night," Clint says, smirking, and holding a hand out for the keys. He looks a lot more vulnerable without his sunglasses on. She can almost see traces of Tesseract blue in his eyes.

Natasha slips the woman forty dollars —which is reasonably cheap, so the hotel probably sucks— and a deadly smile. "Thank you, for your cooperation." It's a line that she usually uses after she's sucked the information out of someone. It intimidates the woman nonetheless.

Natasha spins on her heel and takes hold of Clint's arm. He shoots her a subtle questioning look. She raises one eyebrow. Just play along.

He glances back at the woman, making Natasha turn. She's staring at Clint longingly. He nods in understanding, stifling a chuckle.

They reach their room —on the fifth floor, top floor; how convenient for Clint— and Natasha flicks the lights on. It's small, with lots of windows and a neat, white hotel kitchen that most women would compliment. She starts searching the suite for cameras, and Clint's already checking the bedroom. Nat comes up empty, and the suite doesn't seem to be bugged either.

"Find anything?" She asks, joining him in the bedroom. He shakes his head, carefully stowing their weapons around the room. Natasha slips a knife from her shoe and hands it to him to hide. She can't resist slipping a gun under the mattress —cliche, but convenient— and carefully sticks her Widow's Bite in the crevice between the side of the bed she's claimed and her night-table.

"Looks like we're good," Natasha comments, falling back onto the mattress. Expensive. There's a billion matching pillows digging into her hip and shoulder and threatening to fall on her. Natasha doesn't really care. Clint jokes that she could sleep on anything, and it's true. Five star mattress with too many pillows or a cot with none. Hard wooden floors or someone else's bed. They've both trained themselves to sleep lightly, although Clint has more preferences.

He starts tossing pillows from his side of the bed onto the floor, which makes the corner of her mouth quirk up into an almost-smile. Finally, when there's only one pillow on his side does he lay down next to her. Natasha shifts out of his way, then flops her head back down; but now the mattress it was resting on has been replaced by his stomach.

"We should probably get some sleep."

"I'll take first watch." Clint offers in a tone that doesn't have much room for argument.

"Clint," She sits up, resting a gentle hand on his arm. The muscles on his biceps are tense. "We don't need to take watches. Just go to sleep." Natasha eases him onto the mattress beside her. She didn't bring pajamas, which is fine because she doesn't feel like changing anyway.

"We should get some clothes tomorrow." He comments, crossing his arms behind his head. "Find somewhere to stay until our next assignment."

"We're on a leave of absence," She reminds him, not that it's that necessary.

"Yeah," Clint turns his sharp blue gaze on her. "But how long is it going to last?"

Natasha is one of the last people in the world to have an answer.


End file.
